A crippled flower // Afia Qamar

A crippled flower; practiced choir,

over the deadly moor

on a chaotic night.

How amusing, that halfwit, it wished to,

become a falcon,

under the moonlight.

But why a flower would desire,

to become more? Is not it already

the most exquisite thing on earth?

A flower is like a gypsy dancer,

with beads and tassels of,

dew drops and petals.

In summer it is a chandelier,

that unfolds the nectar in,

its ornamental figure.

But spring makes it a high-born lady,

in an exorbitant gown; that stays endearing

through her fertile years.

Forlorn, the end of its life is

enrobed in a touch;

a touch of a fierce storm or a ruthless human.

Thus fair Belle closes its eyes,

and dreams;

about a place with independent skies.

A crippled flower

The soil gently wraps that blossom of a plant

in its frigid damp arms and lulls it to sleep

on the road to eternal path.

Albeit the flower is gone, Oh heart, heart, heart,

yet the rotten roots have engulfed

the mortal domains of this sacred land.

A crippled flower // Afia Qamar

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